


Fragile

by Stormweaver



Series: Pain is a poison I digest [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Implied Drug Use, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 06:46:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1377769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stormweaver/pseuds/Stormweaver
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One year after the events in Shattered, Mycroft Holmes calls upon a friend to help him with a problem.  What to do with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HeayPuckett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HeayPuckett/gifts).



> I had a very trying day a week ago, I lost my beloved cat to cancer. Fifteen good years but still hard, I asked my writing friend, HeayPuckett if she'd write a story for me, she did. It's great, you should read it but then HeayPuckett did something else, I received a snippet of dialogue and got told ''Go write me a story." I was in a dark place, so this story is a bit of a dark place but it was exactly what I needed on that day. So thanks again, for the laugh (it's Chapter 5 of Mycroft at the Diogenes Club with Tea).
> 
> As always, I own none of the characters - they're property of the Conan Doyle estate, Mofatt, Gatiss and the BBC.

Bright warm sunlight streamed through the windows, a shaft of it falling across the mountain of paperwork on his desk. Greg Lestrade sat back in his chair, looking out the door of his miniscule cube-like office out into the room where the bulk of the homicide drones worked.   A ghost of a smile flitted across his face as his hands scrubbed at his face, even after seven months working here, he couldn’t believe his good luck.   He sighed, knowing in his heart of hearts that it wasn’t pure luck, he had a few connections that had placed him here – it was a complicated thing.   He missed his time working as a Liaison with the Home Office and he missed his friends but he understood the rationale.

_‘I need to put some distance between us.’ Mycroft had explained. ‘Besides, it would be quite advantageous to have you conveniently placed in Homicide – there are people I may need to find, or lose, as the case may be and it would not hurt to have a friendly Detective Inspector to call upon.’ Lestrade had laughed, correcting him, “Detective Sergeant, Myc.” Mycroft had waved his hand dismissively and had given him that smug superior look of his, ‘Yes, of course, time does pass though, Gregory. I need someone I can trust.’_

There was never any question, really. Homicide had been Lestrade’s dream for years, one he’d pretty much given up on when he’d been assigned to work with Sherrinford Holmes.   He didn’t regret that time, it gave him access to information roads that the average detective never had.   Thoughts of the elder Holmes wiped the smile from his face. Less than a year since the bombing that had killed Sherrinford and the better part of a security detail and the identity of the bomber (and the reason) still a mystery.   It drove him mad most nights and he was certain that it was worse for Mycroft.   That mystery was the lone reason he didn’t protest his placement in Homicide or Mycroft’s concerns about his being a target – they had no way of knowing and one of them had to be able to continue the work if the other fell.   Shaking his head at the maudlin turn of his thoughts, he was startled when he looked up and saw the ghost of one of Sherrinford’s security detail leaning against the door jamb.

Anthea smiled at him, utilizing her dimples like weapons, “DS Lestrade, if you could come with me, please?”

_Six months of no call, no show and suddenly Mycroft’s minion shows up in his office,’ he thought, ‘Not a good start to the day.’_

Views of the city swept by as he watched out the car window, the cabin totally silent save for the occasional bit of road noise.   Glancing at Mycroft’s girl Friday had proved to be ineffective; she simply flashed those stellar dimples at him and gazed out the windows.   Resigned, Lestrade settled himself into his seat and waited with a patience he did not feel.

The car stopped in front of a pristine white stone building, the façade screamed ‘old money club’. The driver stepped out of the car, opening the door first for Anthea before coming over to open the door for Lestrade.   He heard her murmur her thanks to the driver and then lead him towards the entrance, then she stopped abruptly, “A few things to know about the old boys, sir… no speaking until you’re told to.” Whatever expression she saw on his face made her laugh, “No, it’s one of their rules here. All boys, no talking – I suppose it makes sense to someone but it seems bloody awful to me.”   She took a look at him and frowned, “Do your coat up, they have a no-tie rule... they have a rule about practically everything, I should think.”

“That all,” he drawled, “Do I need to spin in the entrance and knock twice?”

She laughed, and for an instant he saw a hint of the young woman he’d gotten to know a year before, then all that lively personality was squashed and her expression was that of the young urban professional she appeared to be. She placed her hands on his shoulders, looked at him with a smile and whispered, “Only if you’d like,” as she placed a chaste kiss on his cheek, “Off with you now, Greg, he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

Bemused, Lestrade left her on the pavements and went in to see what England’s unofficial Overlord wanted.   The club was everything Anthea warned him of – exclusive, high priced and overtly self-important. He counted no less than four Peers of the Realm, at least two Members of Parliament and he was certain that he recognized at least one foreign noble in the corner eating teacakes with someone from the Home Office. Lestrade gave himself a mental shake, _‘Not my circus, not my monkeys,’_ he thought to himself as he followed the club’s manager into a well-appointed room off of the central sitting area.

Mycroft was sitting in front of a roaring fireplace, his eyes closed as he sat there like some full colour statue – cup of tea in one hand, toasted tea cake in the other. When the manager cleared his throat, Mycroft’s eyes snapped open and they focused in on him. Setting the tea down, placed the teacake on the saucer, wiped his hands and gestured for Lestrade to take the seat opposite to him.   He nodded once to the manager who took that as his cue to depart the room. Mycroft waited until the door was closed, his posture became more relaxed and he took a deep breath.

“Would you care for a tea?” Mycroft asked, “No coffee, I’m afraid, the membership would have apoplexy if we were to offer something so…”

“Modern?”

Mycroft let out a low bark of laughter, “Not quite the word I was searching for but yes, something to that effect. Let it not be said that the lofty establishment is progressive. It’s simply dreadful for business.”

Lestrade watched his friend as he poured, handing over the china mug. That Mycroft was agitated was obvious to anyone who truly knew him, which meant basically him and Anthea since Sherrinford’s death a year ago.   Lestrade took the proffered cup and asked, “What do you need, Myc, you didn’t invite me all the way here to offer me a cuppa?”

The sigh that issued from Mycroft seemed to deflate him, “Sherlock.” At Lestrade’s blank look, Mycroft said, “Without your help, I fear that we’ll be burying the youngest Holmes within a month.   That is something I can’t abide.”

The youngest of the Holmes trio, Lestrade had never had call to meet. He knew the basics – he was brilliant, as if the Holmes siblings came in another variety. Sherrinford had spoken fondly of the young man, studying chemistry at King’s College if he remembered correctly.   He listened quietly as Mycroft described Sherlock’s downward spiral, a spiral that started not long after Sherrinford’s death.

“I couldn’t tell him, of course. How do you tell your family that their beloved was killed by a bomb, sorry, all the power available to me and I don’t know who did it or why. An accident, Mummy and I thought that would be best.” Mycroft rolled his eyes heavenward, “They were close. He was grieving and I…” Mycroft sagged then, all puff and pomp gone in an instance, “I failed him, Greg, I was so busy doing all I could to learn the job, find the bastard who did this that I didn’t see it.”

“See what, Myc?”’

Mycroft reached over, took his cup of tea and took a sip.   He held on to the cup as if it were safety itself before answering, “He’s an addict, Lestrade, my darling little brother has devolved into a hopeless junkie.   Cocaine by preference, I’ve placed him in rehab twice now. He’s escaped both times, he’s come perilously close to overdosing twice now and only luck saved him. He won’t be so careless the third time.” He gaze met that of the Detective Sergeant, “He’s trying to die and if you don’t help me, I fear he shall.”

 

 =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

 

Lestrade was once again elbows deep in paperwork when he received the call days later. It appeared on the surface to be a simple ‘drug dealer offs drug dealer’ homicide when the constable on the scene said the magic words. Sherlock Holmes. Throwing on his peacoat, he’d broken land speed records getting from his office at the Met to the Temple tube station.   It took him a moment to find the constables who had cordoned off the area and were dealing with a highly agitated street punk and one very dishevelled and irate posh youth.  

“Oh for love of all that is holy, are you bloody daft?”   The depth of the voice seemed to be at odds with the age of the owner, suited more to a grown man and not to a boy.   While the speaker was tall and slender, there was a breadth of shoulder and rigid carriage that defied any label of ‘feminine’.   “Any idiot in possession of the facts could tell you that he didn’t kill the man!”

Taking a deep breath, Lestrade strode into the verbal fray before the boy could rant, “And what facts are those, lad?”

The lad in question turned to stare at Lestrade and it took everything for him not to startle. In that instance he could see why Mycroft was so desperate to save the boy.   Sherlock Holmes possessed the same keen mercurial cadet blue eyes and tousled dark curls as Sherrinford and if the expression on his face was any indication, a full measure of the aforementioned sibling’s intellect as well.   The expression was one part annoyed mixed with two parts contempt and a dash of insolence.   “And you are?”

 _'Brass.’_ Lestrade thought, ‘ _The entire lot of them - must have bought in bulk.’_ “DS Lestrade, Homicide.”

Glaring at the constable who was restraining the dealer, Sherlock stated, “Surely a Sergeant should see that this man is innocent.”

“A sergeant might if presented with the facts.”

“Obvious, really, he couldn’t have killed the man.” He gestured at the body, now covered and waiting for a team from forensics to arrive. “When your team arrives, they will see that the body is fully in rigor mortis so he’s been dead at minimum three hours.   Approximately two and a half hours ago, Jonesie here was meeting with his probation officer. That appointment lasted nearly an hour, the probation officer can confirm.” He noticed, but Sherlock hadn’t, the wince on the part of one aforementioned Jonesie, “He wasn’t home when I called, I left him a message approximately an hour ago, I am quite certain that you’ll find that it is time and date stamped.   He returned the call a half hour later, we arranged to meet here.   Jonesie lives quite a distance from here, Wallwood Street to be specific and that’s a far trip from here.   There’s no way he could have attended the meeting, travelled here, killed the victim, left to clean up given that there’s considerable blood spatter, retrieved the message and then return here in that three hour window in order to make our appointment.”

Lestrade listened to the recitation with a mixture of amusement and sadness, such a brilliant mind, wasting away. “Take them in and charge them,” Lestrade said as he turned to issue some instructions to the waiting constables.

“What?” Sherlock roared, “Are you stupid? I just told you that he didn’t kill the man!”

Lestrade nodded wisely, “Yes, lad, I know.”   He snorted with derision, “Did you hear me say charge them with murder?”

 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Lestrade stepped off the lift and glanced around, it didn’t take keen observational skills to figure out where the family lounge was, the presence of several black suited individuals gave that away.   He flashed his identification and entered the room where Mycroft sat; head tilted back, eyes closed.

Lestrade sat down beside his friend, waiting, knowing from experience that Mycroft would speak when he was ready.   What he said surprised Lestrade more than he expected, “They’re calling it an overdose, it was a suicide attempt.”   When Lestrade stared at him, he said, “I’m going to lose them both, Greg, in less than a year.” He wiped his hands across his face, eyes tormented, “His flatmate forgot something on his way out for a weekend away - he’d been gone less than 15 minutes. Sherlock waited until he left.”

“Do the doctors suspect?”

“No,” Mycroft said with a heavy sigh, “He’s a junkie and they see no reason to suspect that there’s more.”   He glanced over at his friend, “I’ve spoken to my parents, I’ve taken control of his money – he needs to come to me to access the trust that Sherrinford left him now. That might slow his descent but it won’t stop it, if he’s determined to do this, he’ll find a way. He isn’t going to classes, he lacks stimulation, and to wit, he’s bored.   Sherlock is always most dangerous when bored.”

“I’ll talk to him, which room?”

The look Mycroft gave him was pure desperation, “If you can get through to that half-wit, I’ll give you half his trust. “ He sagged back into the chair, “Money well spent, if I truly thought you could get through to the idiot. He’s in 1402.”

 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

 

In his time with the Met, he’d seen all manner of human depravity – self-inflicted or not, it was something that you never got use to but you hardened yourself to it.   All the hardening in the world couldn’t prepare him for the difference he saw in the youngest Holmes.

That shock of unruly dark curls remained the same, but all the vibrancy, all the colour seemed to have been pulled from the gaunt length of the boy. Ivory skin seemed more the colour of alabaster - delicate, transparent and so very fragile.   He stood there for a moment in the doorway, wondering at the chain of events that had led them here.

“Come to arrest me, have you?”

“All the time in the world, for that, lad,” Lestrade said, taking a single step into the room, “You’re not going anywhere in the near future.”   Dead eyes stared back at him and he glanced over his shoulder at the waiting area, “Your rather creepy and slightly scary brother just offered me more than my yearly salary to spy on your sorry carcass, is that normal?”

A flash of interest sparked in the eyes for a moment, guttered and died as Sherlock turned his face to stare out the window, “Go back and say yes, we can split the fee.”

Lestrade chuckled, “Who says I said no?   Not a chance in hell I’m sharing the fee either, we both know what you’ll do with it.”

“What good are you then?” Sherlock spat as he sulked.

Lestrade glanced over his shoulder, out the window to meet Mycroft’s gaze and then firmly closed the door. Stepping further into the room, he said, “It’d be criminal, you know,” he said conversationally, talking despite Sherlock’s obvious disinterest, “I talked to your teachers. Brilliant, they say, genius – and you’re pissing it away.   You could do so much more with your mind. I saw that the other day.”

Sherlock turned to glare at him, eyes alive with contempt and loathing, “Got an opening for a junkie at the Met, do you?”

Lestrade sat down on the orange plastic chair that seemed ubiquitous in hospital rooms. “That’s the first time I’ve seen even a spark of life in you since you proved your dealer innocent,” Lestrade commented, taking a breath before plunging on, “If I had to guess, I think you’re bored. I think you’ve been bored for a very long time and you have no outlet, no one to alleviate the boredom – you lost that.” When Sherlock didn’t comment, he said, “What if I could alleviate your boredom?”

“You?” Sherlock snarled, the faintest touch of a sneer curling his mouth, “I highly doubt that you have the intellectual prowess to keep me even slightly amuse…” Whatever else Sherlock was going to say was cut off when Lestrade tossed three colour photographs on the bed.

Icy blue eyes flickered up at chocolate brown, “That’s where I was when I was summoned by your creepy arsed brother’s goons. That there is your classic locked door mystery, the victim was stabbed, one knife placed between the shoulder blades whilst he was barricaded in his office. It’s locked from the inside, of course, deadbolt which is even better and not a hint that anyone had been in the office with him.” Lestrade smirked, “What do you say, Genius? Interested?”

 

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

 

Lestrade knew the answer, of course he was interested. If there was anything that Lestrade had learned in three years dealing with Sherrinford and Mycroft, it was the simple truth that they simply could not resist the opportunity to show off that intellect.   That was the biggest flaw in many ways; they simply couldn’t resist the opportunity to prove how smart they were.   He was betting that Sherlock was no different and from the way Sherlock was staring at the photographs, he was right.

Lestrade waited while Mycroft smoothed all the administrative hurdles that would see Sherlock released, temporarily, into the detective’s care.   He was being showered, shaved and shorn while Lestrade arranged for them to be taken the murder scene.   Thanks to Mycroft’s ‘unofficial’ influence, he’d been able to have the crime scene preserved for a short two hour gap – the murder was in a prominent barrister’s office so discretion was also an issue.   “There are a few things you need to know about this,” Lestrade started.

Sherlock rolled his eyes heavenward, hands ruffling through his hair in exasperation, “You want my opinion? Let me figure it out myself!”

“Not that, genius,” Lestrade said with heavy sarcasm, “The firm represents several high profile clients, no one royal but a few with serious ties.   The best I can give you is fifteen minutes.”

“Then I shall endeavour not disappoint, DS Lestrade.”

Lestrade conveyed Sherlock into a large office and if the younger man was surprised to see the body still in place, he gave no sign.   He stepped up to the body, his eyes surveying the room in a glance. The room was large, opulent though ultra-modern. The walls were a pristine matte white that softened the light filtering in from the massive windows behind the desk. The desk was a classic – elegantly carved walnut with large spacious leather chair behind it. Opposite the desk, two smaller, seemingly comfortable leather chairs completed the desk set.   While elegant, the room was rather Spartan, with only other furnishings being a large black leather sofa with plush cushions and a narrow side tables adorned with the seemingly obligatory glossy magazines that offices invariably had, one ash tray and the stub of a cigar.

“Nothing has been touched or moved?” Sherlock asked as he crouched beside the body.   He tipped his head to the side, examining the neck area of the corpse.

“Not a thing, body is as we found it.”

Nodding as if to himself, the younger man bent his attention to the blade imbedded in the deceased man’s back, “You said ‘knife’, Detective Sergeant, but what we have here is something rather different.” Blazing blue eyes studied the handle, his fingers floating over but not touching the blade, “This is a dagger, specifically a dirk.” At Lestrade’s blank look, Sherlock rolled his eyes again, “A knife is a single edged weapon, designed for slicing or cutting, a dagger is an old-fashioned weapon – this one especially. Dual edged, razor sharp with a highly pointed tip, this one type in particular was favoured in the Renaissance.   Able to stab, highly unlikely to break,” and with that he bent down and sniffed at the hilt of the blade. “What is that smell?”

Lestrade shrugged, glancing around the room, “I don’t smell anything.”

“Given the cologne you wear, I’m not surprised.”

Sherlock stood abruptly, moving to the desk where he again seemed to sniff the air near the air vents, “The vents are far too small for anyone but the smallest child to crawl through, so we know that our killer didn’t get in or out that way. No, they came and left through that door.”

He walked around the body, noting the general lack of blood on the clothing and dagger.   He crouched down again to examine the polished metal hilt of the dagger and noted the lack of any fingerprint, smudge or otherwise.   His nostrils flared, as if noting a particular scent and his crystalline eyes went vacant for a split second.

He stood stock still, straightening his clothing carefully before he stepped forward again, looking around the office.   His eyes lighted on the sofa and he walked over, sniffing at the cushions before turning to fix his gaze on a perplexed Lestrade.   “Historical replicas are in vogue at the moment, but that is most definitely not a replica – late 15th century by all appearances.   Find yourself a disgruntled employee or client with an affinity for the High Middle Ages that visited this office earlier today and that’s your murderer.”

“Just like that, go arrest a murderer? We don’t even know how the dagger ended up in his back.”

“Of course, we do. I certainly do.”   He strode over to the deceased barrister’s desk, extracted a letter opener from the desk drawer and returned to the sofa, where he inserted the letter opener in the gap of the thick black leather cushions that made up the back.   Sherlock glanced up at Lestrade and grinned at him, “Your victim simply sat back into it.”

 

=-=-=-=-=

 

Lestrade sat down on the chair beside Mycroft’s, looking down the hallway where nurses were putting a very vocal Sherlock back to bed.   The vitriol coming from the room was enough to raise the hairs on the neck of a lesser man but it wasn’t anything Lestrade hadn’t heard before. Mycroft, on the other hand, winced and shook his head sadly.

“Solved it in under ten minutes,” Lestrade said, watching his friend’s face carefully.

“I never said he was an idiot, just a junkie.”

Lestrade laughed, “I’ve offered him a job, since his overbearing older brother,” Mycroft sneered at him, “has a death grip on his trust.   I suggested that if he built his reputation as a consultant, he could eventually gain private clientele who pay well and gain financial independence from said brother.”

Smiling for what was probably the first time in days, Mycroft said, “When he mentions it, I shall forbid it, of course.”   At Lestrade’s look, he shrugged, “I’ll relent when he plays the guilt card.   I owe you, Gregory.”

“Yes, you do.” Lestrade agreed.   “That said, I think I might get the best out of this deal down the road so I’m prepared to be generous.”

  

=-=-=-=-=-=-=

 

Paperwork finally finished (a state that was sure not to last), Lestrade logged out of his computer, tidied the forms on his desk, discarded the now cold and very bitter cup of coffee he’d picked up at a food cart and prepared to call it a day.   As he went through his end of day routine, he was distracted by a tap at the door of his office.

A constable stood at the door, “There’s a Mr. Holmes here to see you, sir.”

“Send him in,” Lestrade said, glad that he’d taken a moment to tidy his desk. Mycroft was such a pain in the arse about tidiness.   He opened his mouth to greet him, glanced up and his eyebrows shot up, “Well, you clean up well,” he said by way of greeting.

Sherlock Holmes stood in the doorway, looking nothing like the indolent youth made a deal with eight weeks prior.   He was still shockingly thin but no longer gaunt, he’d lost that hallow look in his face and there was a determination in his face that said man, not boy.   “Can’t stay in bed forever, can I?”

“I’m told some famous bloke did for years.”

“I’d die.” Noting the look on Lestrade’s face, he stammered, “Yes, well, that was a failed experiment I shall not repeat.” He glanced at the chair opposite Lestrade, “May I?”

Lestrade nodded, gesturing for him to sit and said drily, “Love the coat.”

Sherlock fingered the thick wool of the dark coat, “It’s been a trying year, DS Lestrade, I find that I’m rarely warm unless I’m in my own flat. I’m not really one for jumpers.” He glanced up at Lestrade, “I’ve completed my latest course of rehab – if I maintain, my brother has agreed to let me work with you on the occasional case. He’s so tedious, worse than Mummy in that regard.   I realize that you work predominantly with homicide and that I’ve assisted there twice, however, if you should have any case that presents some mystery…”

There was a knock at the door, Lestrade glanced up to see the same constable from earlier, “Glad you’re still here, sir, we’ve got a call from a lass in Cheapside, apparently her cat climbed a tree and well, they got the cat down but there’s an arm on her roof.”

Sherlock turned to stare at the constable, “Just the arm?” When the constable nodded, he turned and gazed at Lestrade with a smile curving his lips, “Interesting!”

Lestrade stood reached for his coat and snatched his keys off the desk, “I gotta see this, let’s go, Genius.”

**Author's Note:**

> As I always write with music, I should tell you that the song for this was Fragile by Sting. There's just something I find calming about the song despite the lyrical content. HeayPuckett gave me the bones of the scene in the hospital, the lyrics of the song gave me the rest of the theme.
> 
> If blood will flow when flesh and steel are one  
> Drying in the colour of the evening sun  
> Tomorrow's rain will wash the stains away  
> But something in our minds will always stay  
> Perhaps this final act was meant  
> To clinch a lifetime's argument  
> That nothing comes from violence and nothing ever could  
> For all those born beneath an angry star  
> Lest we forget how fragile we are.


End file.
